


The Woman Who Counted

by cheerfulmorgue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Almost smut, Crimes, F/M, Fluff, Romance, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, cases, like that lovely area right before smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-04 13:59:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14021784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheerfulmorgue/pseuds/cheerfulmorgue
Summary: After the fall Molly Hooper does everything she can to help the brilliant Mr Sherlock Holmes. Unfortunately it isn't always easy being his flatmate, especially considering the circumstances. Despite him being a pain in the arse her love for him helps her keep his secret as he dismantles James Moriarty's network. But what happens after? When he's left and returned will things go back to the way they were?





	1. I

 

     Molly Hooper was very much in love with Sherlock Holmes, but despite knowing how much she loved him and how she would and did do anything for him she knew that he was an absolute arsehole. While she couldn’t picture herself not being in love with Sherlock she did understand why Meena was so puzzled by her infatuation with the consulting detective.

     But how could she not be absolutely smitten? Sherlock Holmes was probably 97% perfection. He was boffin and attractive, two very important qualities, but that odd 3% is the machine in him. Sherlock’s beauty and intelligence could easily be hidden by his ego, his objective detachment, his aversion to social constructs….  

     But anyways, Molly was in love with this man.

Love. What a silly thought. Molly’s mother and father had always told her that love came after dating. They said that when you were in love, you became engaged to be married. Love wasn’t something that just happened overnight. For a majority of her life, Molly had believed this to be true, but when she met Sherlock her whole rules about love changed. 

     At first, it was just a silly little crush, but then it escalated so quickly and every time they worked together since then her cheeks kept a natural rouge, her pupils rarely constricted, and her heart never seemed to beat slower than a hummingbird’s wings. 

    Anybody could tell what Molly was thinking, especially when she was around Sherlock. Molly couldn’t help but wonder what he felt, though. Not necessarily how he felt towards her, but just his feelings in general. He was such a tough nut to crack. He wasn’t exactly one to express emotions verbally or physically; however, Molly thought herself rather good at reading emotions. She often bragged to Meena about being able to read Sherlock’s emotions when no one else could, but there was one reason for that: Molly knew when to look.   


* * *

  
     Sherlock sat at the microscope, working on a case. Molly glanced up at him and knew immediately what he felt. From the furrowed brows to the look in his eyes as he stared into the microscope to the drooping corners of his lips, they were all signs of sadness. 

     She’d seen this look before and it broke her heart. Despite the many times he made her sad she couldn’t bare to see him upset. She had never tried to help, always being too afraid of being shut down, but today she felt stronger. She picked up her nerves and broke the silence.

     “You’re a bit like my dad. He’s dead. No, sorry.”

     He didn’t even flinch. “Molly please don’t feel the need to make conversation. It’s really not your area.”

     She swallowed her fear, looking away from him as she gathered her words together. “When he was dying he was always cheerful, he was lovely, except when he thought no one could see….” She bit her lip. “I saw him once…. He looked sad.”

     “Molly.”

     “You look sad. When you think he can’t see you.” She looked over to John, then back at Sherlock who was now looking at her. His lips parted, brows now raised. 

     She continued. “Are you okay? And don’t just say you are because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you.”

     “You can see me.”

     She shook her head. “I don’t count…. What I’m trying to say is if there’s ever anything you need – anything at all – you can have me. No, I just mean. I mean, if there’s anything you need … it’s fine.” Her cheeks were burning and she looked away as if that would cool them down.

     “What could I need from you?”

     “Nothing. I don’t know…. You could probably say thank you, actually.”

     He looks away for a moment before looking back, brows furrowed once again. “Thank you.” After Molly nods Sherlock returns to his work, once again being consumed by whatever speck of dust or drop of blood he had in the petri dish.  
Molly closed her eyes, taking a deep breath as she decided whether or not it was a good idea to break the silence or not. She decided she didn’t care. “I’m just going to go get some crisps. Do you want anything? It’s okay. I know you don’t.” She turned, her mousy brown ponytail whipping behind her as she started towards the door.

     “Well actually, maybe I–”

     She waved him off, not comprehending what he had started to say. “I know you don’t.”

     Once she shut the lab door behind her eyes widened and she planted her face into the palm of her hand. He had wanted something. He was sad and he had attempted to connect with her by asking for some crisps or a candy bar and she had messed it up by assuming he wanted nothing. Of course she did. She always messed it up with him. Every time. Always, always. 

     By the time she got back he was gone. She sighed and resumed with her work. She had one autopsy left, so she grabbed the list of waiting cadavers and headed downstairs to the morgue, pushing her conversation with Sherlock out of her mind. 

     When the end of her shift had arrived, she grabbed her coat and bag and started towards the locker room door; however she was stopped by a voice. 

     “You were wrong, you know.”

     She gasped and jumped, turning to face him with her hand clutching her chest. The voice had come from Sherlock. His back was towards her. How she had missed him standing there, she couldn’t say.

     “You do count,” he continued. “You’ve always counted and I’ve always trusted you. But you were right. I’m not okay.”

     Molly pulled herself together, taking a step forward. “Tell me what’s wrong.” He faced her now, locking his eyes with hers. Molly could see that they weren’t as icy as usual. She saw fear in them.

     He started stepping closer to her. “If I wasn’t everything that you think I am, everything I think I am, would you still want to help me?” 

     Molly felt her heartbeat in her throat and her stomach flip over. She took a deep breath. “What do you need?”

     “You.”


	2. II

She furrowed her brows, watching as he stepped toward her. Closer and closer. She felt her breaths expanding her lungs and aside from this man stepping closer to her, all she could think about was her breathing. In and out. In and out.

“I-I don’t understand. Sherlock, what do you need?”

He stopping stepping forward, stand only a couple feet from her. “Your help, Molly. I need you to help me.”

She bit her lip, setting her bag down. “You’ve got to be more specific than that.”

“Moriarty is convincing people I’m a fraud. He’s shaming me and putting me at risk of being arrested and charged with the kidnapping.”

“Well, what do you need to do?”

“Molly, I have to kill myself.”

The tensity in the room was tangible, filling the air around the two. Molly felt as if she would choke on it if she took too deep of a breath. Her eyes began burning, but she couldn’t tell if it was because her eyes had widened into saucers or if it was the tears beginning to form. “What?”

“Not … literally.” Sherlock furrowed his brows and Molly could tell that he was searching for the right words. “I have to fake my death Molly and I need your help with it.”

“How could I be of any help?” she asked, almost in a whisper. “I’d only get in your way.”

“No.” His voice demanded she look back up at him. And she did. “Molly, are you willing to take a risk?”

“What do you need?”

“Risk your career, your friends, your life?”

She repeated her question.

“Death record. My death record. I need you to fake my records.”

Her eyes went wide, her lips pressing together. “I’ll do it, Sherlock,” she stepped forward. “I’ll do anything you need, but first tell me why. Please.”

He wet his lips as he thought of how to explain the situation. “I have reason to believe that there is a corpse in the morgue who looks similar to me. Am I correct?”

Molly let out a breath, thinking back on an earlier autopsy. A man with dark locks similar to the detectives had indeed been on her slab. She supposed that from a distance it would be easy to confuse the two. “A John Doe. I laid him out.”

“If Moriarty is planning what I think he may be, then you are going to receive a text from me. You and Mycroft will be the only ones to get it and you must delete it as soon as you can. I need you to roll out the John Doe and at my text push him out the window. Can you do that?”

Molly’s head throbbed and her stomach was doing somersaults. She couldn’t figure out if this was real, if it was happening. Such a request seemed absolutely ridiculous. She closed her eyes, counted to three, and then nodded her head. “Yes. Sherlock. Yes I will help you.”

“Thank you, Molly.” He leaned down a pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. She struggled to not lean into it. “Now, I must go. See you in the morgue.” Eyes stinging, she closed them once again as she nodded, hearing his steps fading.

The John Doe was rolled out in the next couple of minutes and Molly impatiently waited by the window, door locked so no one saw what was happening. She peered out onto the street, watching the passerbyers when she felt two buzzes in her pocket that nearly stopped her heart.

**Lazarus.**

**Lazarus is go. Dr Hooper?**

Molly bit her lip, knowing she needed to respond.  **John Doe is ready. At your say.**

A couple of minutes pass by, Molly nearly having chewed through her lip when the final text arrived.

**Now.**


	3. III

There was never a moment where Sherlock Holmes was still. He was always fidgeting, fingers tapping, legs shaking, or eyes moving around as he made deductions. Even when he was still, staring into his microscope or leaning against the back of his chair, deep in thought, there was always something about him that was frenetic. Like his thoughts were tangible and always in motion. It was like the air around him moved a lot faster just because he was there. But at that moment, for the first time since Molly had met him, Sherlock Holmes was motionless.

He lay in an unzipped body bag on a slab, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. Molly stood a few feet back, not wanting to disturb him but not daring to leave him. Theatrical blood was still spattered across his face, his curls damp with it, and his silence was somewhat disturbing to Molly and as the seconds ticked by she began to distract herself by fidgeting with an imaginary string at the hem of her lab coat. Seconds turned to minutes and soon Molly took a step forward, heart pounding. “Sherlock?”

“John.” His voice was a whisper, his eyes remained closed. Molly doubt he even realised he had responded.

She sighed brushing a loose hair out of her face. “Molly.”

“Yes.” He continued to lay there and Molly thought twice before speaking again.

“What’s the plan?” she asked. “Where do we go from here?”

“We?”

“You, I mean.”

“We.” He sat up, “Molly, would you do me one last favour?” 

“What?”

“Now that I’m ‘dead’ there will be many people, most being government related, in and out of my brother’s home meaning I can’t stay with him. Would you allow me to lodge with you for awhile? Just until I map out Moriarty’s web.”

She nodded. “Of course you can, Sherlock. Anything you need.”

“And something else too.”

“Yes?”

A hand brushed across his cheek, smearing the blood. He pulled back his hand to see his fingertips stained red. “Clean off my face? No mirrors in here. And obviously I can’t just walk out of here after jumping to my death with only a bleeding face.”

“Oh,” she looked around, momentarily forgetting where everything in her morgue was located, “yes.” She dashed off to a medical towel dispenser and pulled out several blue tissues, wetting some in the sink before going back to Sherlock. She began gently wiping his face with the wet ones and he closed his eyes as she wiped across his nose and around the corner of his eye, careful to avoid pressing on any real scratches he had obtained in the fall. He had landed on an inflatable crash mat, but in his rush to switch with the body Molly had shoved out the window he had fallen, giving himself a few scratches and surely bruises in the process. 

“I hope I’m not interrupting.” 

Molly jumped, turning to see Mycroft Holmes leaning on his umbrella in front of the morgue doors. A rather unnerving smirk adorned his lips and Molly felt her stomach drop about an inch.

“Not much.” Sherlock swung his legs out of the body bag and over the edge of the slab, hopping off. He took a dry towel from Molly and began to dry off his face. “Have you brought everything?”

“On the slab closest to me.” Both Molly and Sherlock shot their eyes at the slab in question, furrowing their brows and wondering when the bag had gotten there. “You’re getting slow, brother mine.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, making his way to the bag and peering in. “In my defence I have just killed myself. I may need a moment.” 

“We’ve hardly got a moment.”

He pulled out a pair of jeans and a grey hoodie and set them beside the bag before pulling his shirt out of his pants and unbuttoning it. Molly furrowed her brows, but turned around once he got to unzipping his trousers. Mycroft rolled his eyes and glanced away.

“You’ve been studying the human body for nearly eighteen years, Molly,” Sherlock said, his voice somehow teasing despite everything that was happening, “I would have thought you wouldn’t be embarrassed upon the sight of the human body.”

“I’m used to dead people.” She said, still facing away from him. “Besides, I’m only being polite.” 

“You can turn back now.” And she did. He looked so different without his usual attire. Usually he looked so clean and crisped. Now he looked sloppy and so … not Sherlock. She supposed that that  _ was _ the point, but she couldn’t help but stare. He didn’t seem to care.

“I will be heading back to Molly’s flat after you leave,” he continued, “when should we meet?”

“I will drop by in the next few days. We will discuss your next moves,” Mycroft said, tapping his umbrella on the floor as he took a step back. “Until then, brother mine, stay out of the public eye.” With that he turned, heading out of the morgue with a twirl of his umbrella.


	4. IV

Much to her surprise Molly and Sherlock received no odd passing looks from anyone as they walked through the halls. Some of Molly’s co-workers smiled at her, giving her a wave. They didn’t pay any attention to Sherlock who walked beside her, hood over his head. Molly looked over at Sherlock and pressed her lips together. He watched his feet as he walked, eyes occasionally glancing at the people they passed.

Her arm locked around his and she felt his arm stiffen. “What are you doing?”

“It looks odd,” she said, her voice low as she smiled at him, “me walking next to a hooded figure. I’m pretending I know you.”

“You do know me.”

She faked a giggle for her co-workers. “I’m pretending to know you in a different way.”

“Oh. Yes.” He loosened up a bit and used his free hand to lower his hood. Molly had considered his curls to be one of his most defining features. Some of them had been lost due to all of the theatrical blood so as long as they hurried, she hoped that perhaps his less curly hair may help disguise him.

“New boyfriend, Molls?”

Molly turned, Sherlock nearly walking off without her. He gave a fake smile and looked down again. “Oh, um, yes. This is … James. This is James. James, this is Meena Mani.” She immediately regretted making the introduction.

Sherlock took her hand. He recognised the name and when he set eyes on the olive skinned, dark almond-eyed woman he knew why. Meena had stood in for Molly on a couple of rare occasions when she was at home sick or with her family in Essex. Meena locked eyes with him, her dark curves of eyebrows furrowing. Both Sherlock and Molly’s hearts stopped as they waited for the recognition to set in.

But it didn’t. Meena smiled brightly. “Lovely to meet you.” Sherlock and Molly let out a collective breath. “Be kind to my Molls. I’ll have your head if you don’t.”

“Meena.”

“Oh, Molly, you know I only jest.” She paused. “Sort of only jest.”

“Well, we’ve gotta get going. Are you still up for “Monmouth on Sunday?”

“Of course! Until then, have fun. Be safe.” Meena winked, Molly blushed. With that she sauntered off, disappearing into a nearby lift.

Molly took Sherlock’s arm again and they continued walking. “That was close.”

He lifted his hood once again. “Too close.”

* * *

 

The air was heavy with an unnerving silence. Not a single word had been shared in the cab. Sherlock stared out the window while she stared at her hands, folded together in her lap. They were minutes from her flat when a ringing frightened her out of her thoughts. Sherlock’s head snapped over at her and he raised his brows.

Molly looked at the caller ID, heart stopping for a millisecond. She glanced at Sherlock, her lips pressed tightly together. She asked the question that was on both of their minds with just a furrow of her brows. Sherlock simply nodded, watching as she clicked ‘accept’ and lifted her phone to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Molly.”

She could already feel the stinging in her eyes. “Hey, John. Listen to me-”

“Where is he?” She bit her lip as she saw Sherlock look down, letting out a silent sigh. He could likely hear John despite not having him on speaker.

“John, I don’t, um…” She wiped a tear from her cheek. There was no stopping now. “...know how to say this.” Her breath came out in a shaky sigh.

“No.” She could practically see him, head shaking, eyes rubbed raw and blinking through his disbelief. “God, Molly. No…. Don’t say it. Don’t.”

She didn’t even bother wiping the tears away now. They fell fast and hot against her skin despite knowing the truth. “He’s gone.”

The line went silent before a beeping sent her spiralling back to reality. She shut off her phone and looked over at the man beside her. Sherlock was alive. He was alive and sitting next to her. But no one could ever know. Not even John Watson.

Sherlock gave a single nod, silently thanking her before looking out the window again. Molly’s lips parted but quickly closed again. She was sure he was thinking and didn’t want to hinder his thoughts.

Molly had to think too. Sherlock was staying with her and the thought absolutely terrified her. She knew it was only until it was safe for him to go out and tear down Moriarty’s thick criminal web, but the thought of sharing her flat with him made her stomach flop about. With each passing moment she became increasingly aware of the last time she had tidied up.

The cab rolled to a stop in front of her flat and she gave the cabbie his due and a tip before leading Sherlock into the building. Immediately upon stepping in, his eyes whirred around the sitting room, surely spitting out deductions in his head. Usually, Molly loved hearing his deductions. She always found gobsmacked by his brilliance, even he was being rather unkind. This time, however, she thanked God for his quiet. After all they had both been through that day she didn’t think she could handle being tossed about by Sherlock Holmes because of her bright yet scruffy little flat.

Molly shucked off her coat and hung it on the rack next to the front door. “The spare’s upstairs.”

“Mm, no.”

“Sorry?”

His hoodie came off and made its way to the coat rack, hanging next to hers. “The spare won’t do.”

“Oh.” There didn’t seem to be another option, but Molly looked about, eyes stopping on the sofa. “Well, I doubt you’d be any more comfortable on the-”

“Your bedroom should do just fine.”

“Oh, well I-” Before she could finish her sentence he had disappeared into the loo. Molly sighed to herself. “Right.”

By the time his shower ended, Molly had her pyjamas in hand, ready to go in for her own. He walked out shirtless, but with his trousers still on. Molly looked away, blushing as she tried to scoot past him; however, he stopped her before she got into the doorway.

“I’m not stealing your bedroom from you,” he said, “but I am in need of the space. You’re welcome to share it with me. You’re small enough to not make much of a difference in the space.”

Her heart swelled and she could have sworn it dropped an inch or two. As much as she wanted to say yes she couldn’t help but feel embarrassed. Sherlock did a good job at remaining stoic, but Molly could see right through his facade. She saw the vulnerability he had earned from the day and it hurt her to see him like that.

So she shook her head. “No, it’s fine. Really. You take it.” She gave him the tiniest of smiles and closed the door behind her before he could argue with her.


	5. V

Molly awoke to the grumbling of a coffee grinder and the gurgling of the pot. She rubbed the dust from her eyes and sat up, momentarily wondering who could be making coffee. When she realised who she fell back onto the guest bed, hands covering her eyes as memories of the day before came flooding back to her.

All of a sudden there was a massive pain at her temple. There was so much she and Sherlock needed to discuss but discussing them would also confirm that everything, Moriarty and Sherlock’s “suicide” and all of the things Molly didn’t want to be real, was real. 

But still, she had to face the facts.

So she mustered up the courage to roll out of bed, wrap her fluffy yellow dressing gown around her body, and padded down the stairs into the front room where Sherlock lay on the sofa. His eyes were closed, fingers steepled together and pressed against his lips. Entirely still. Molly knew she shouldn’t disrupt him, but she also knew that they both needed to know exactly what was going on.

“Sherlock?”

He said nothing. The rise and fall of his chest was the only confirmation that he was indeed alive. Molly edged forward, setting a hand on the back of the sofa.

“Sherlock.”

“You have questions.”

Somehow she hadn’t expected him to answer the second time. She hadn’t quite figured out what she wanted to say. “Well, yes. I … um…” She looked about the room as if what she wanted to say was dancing around her, just out of her reach.

As the gargle of the coffee pot slowed Sherlock hopped off of the sofa and headed to the kitchen. “Coffee?”

“Thanks.” He returned to the sofa a moment later with with two tall mugs. She took it with another “thanks” as she sat on the sofa, sipping and swallowing the steaming liquid with a grimace she had tried hard to hold back. 

A brow furrowed at her. “Problem?” 

“No, not really. It’s just, it’s black.”

“With two sugars, yes.”

A giggle escaped as she looked at him, confused and questioning. “Sherlock, not everybody drinks coffee the way you do.”

“Why not? I think my way is rather good. Stimulating. Great for focus.” 

“Well-” she stood up, taking her mug with her to the kitchen, “I prefer to have mine with some French Vanilla. The creamer helps cool it down too.” 

“Mh.” He sipped from his own mug as she doctored hers. “Right then, I have questions too.”

“You first?”

“How long are you willing to allow me to lodge with you?”

She returned from the kitchen and sat next to him. “How long will you need to?”

“Don’t know.” He set his mug on a coaster and turned to Molly. “I’m assuming that the investigation may take a few weeks. All suicides are investigated as homicides until substantial evidence proves it to be suicide. There will be a required tox screen for both myself and Moriarty, which will take about four to six weeks to show a result, as you know. They’ll expect you to take a screening of me when you supposedly do my autopsy. The results, of course, won’t matter because I’m not actually dead but I know the press will be eager to get their hands on the results of my autopsy and will keep the story of my suicide in the papers until they get all of the details they want. I give them a month and a half. Three tops. Until then, it’s risky to even leave your flat.”

“So you’re just staying here until the press dies down?” He nodded.

“Yup,” he said, popping the ‘p’ as he picked up his mug and sipped the coffee again.

“Okay, but what then?”

“Well, Mycroft should be dropping by any day now so we can discuss my moves. He’s already got his people mapping out Moriarty’s network so I guess the two or three months I’m stuck I will be planning the next couple of years. Which reminds me….” he set the mug down and pulled a folded sheet of paper form his back pocket, handing it to her as he picked his mug up again and leaned back on the sofa. 

“What’s this?”

“A list of all of the materials I will be needing for the next couple of months.” She scanned the list. Nicotine patches, trousers and shirts (sizes included), hair dye, et cetera. Some things were reasonable, like the Earl Grey he asked for. But then he had “laptop” and “mobile phone” written down and she wondered (not for the first time) if perhaps she wasn’t capable of providing him enough help.

“So, we need to go out and get these?”

“ _ You _ need to go out and get those.”

Molly raised a brow. “I want to help Sherlock, but money doesn’t grow on trees. I could lend you maybe £100 but that’s all”

“Oh, right.” He reached into his pocket again and pulled out a card which he handed to her. It bore the name of Mycroft Holmes and she tried to hand it back to him. 

“We can’t spend his money, Sherlock.”

“Of course we can.” He pushed it back to her. “He gave it to me for this purpose. It was in the lazarus plan. There should be about  £4000 on there. That should be more than enough for everything on that list.”

“Right. Guess that’s what I’ll be doing today.” She stood, setting the  card on the coffee table as she picked up her mug. “I’m going to go make some pancakes. How many do you want?”

“None.”

“Why?”

“Oh, don’t look like that.” He waved her off. “I can last a couple more days.”

“Without food?”

“Yes.”

“Sherlock.”

“What?”

She let out a deep sigh, shaking her head as she looked down at him. “You can’t just not eat.”

“Of course I can. Eating is just a distraction. I need to think.”

“Which is hard to do while your stomach is eating away at itself - don’t roll your eyes at me. I’m a doctor.”

“You tend to corpses.”

She nodded. “Yeah, and I know how to become a corpse too. I’d say I’m an expert.”

He was resisting the urge to roll his eyes again, but instead he took a sip from his mug and looked away from her. “Fine.”

“Okay. I’ll ask again then: how many pancakes do you want?”

“One.” She blinked at him. “Three.”

Molly smiled. “Right away.”


	6. VI

An hour and a half later Molly was pushing a trolley up and down the aisles of the nearest Tesco. There were supermarkets closer to her flat, such as Sainsbury’s and Waitrose but Molly knew that she’d be able to find everything on Sherlock’s list, aside from the nicotine patches, at Tesco. She had to stop at a pharmacy on the way to Tesco for those.

When she reached the electronics she saw that the different televisions on display all played the same, muted channel: the news. Photos of Sherlock’s face, hidden by that silly deerstalker, spun onto the screen as Tina Daheley spoke to various pedestrians and detectives. Molly fought back the tears stinging her eyes. She shook her head and pushed her trolley to laptops.

After an hour of shopping, she had made it through Sherlock’s list and was left with her own. Simple items: milk, coffee beans, eggs. She stopped by the dairy first, grabbing some Lactofree. When she turned back to her trolley she nearly dropped the milk.

“Molly?”

She bit her tongue, forcing herself to stay quiet. To not say what she really wanted to say.  _ He’s alive. He is alive. _

“Molly, how have you been?”

She let go of her tongue, swallowing as she thought through her next few words, making sure that nothing gave away Sherlock’s survival. “I’m … alive.” Bad choice of words. John flinched and Molly squeezed her eyes shut. “No, sorry. I-”

She opened her eyes to she John giving her a forced smile, his head shaking. “No it’s … erh … fine. Gotta come to terms eventually.” He sucked in a deep breath before continuing. “It’s Saturday, the … funeral. It’s being held at Poppy’s.” John’s eyes were bloodshot, watery. Tired. Molly’s heart ached for him.

As much as she wanted to tell him the truth, all she could do was nod her head. “I’ll be there.” 

“Yeah.” He opened a fridge door and grabbed a carton of milk. “Now then, back to my shopping.”

Molly told him goodbye and hurried off. She had to get out of Tesco, away from John. Just being in the same building as him tore at her heart as she fought with herself. She hated seeing him so depressed but she knew that this secret wasn’t just a game. It was for the safety and well-being of England. Maybe even the world.

 

As soon as she arrived at her flat Sherlock headed straight for the pharmacy bag, tearing open the box inside and slapping a nicotine patch onto his forearm. With a sigh, he sank into Molly’s sofa as she began putting away the cold things.

“Only one patch?”

The corner of his lips twitched in a smirk. “I’m saving the rest for when Mycroft gets here.”

“Does he smoke too?” Molly couldn’t keep the disapproval out of her voice, but she knew Sherlock didn’t care. He knew she didn’t approve of his smoking. She was a doctor of course, one who had laid out too many cadavers with dark, mottled lungs.

“Tries to.” He looked over at her. “Low tar.”

“Well, at least you’re trying to quit.”

“You won’t let me smoke here. But I still need a fix. Especially now.” He held up his hand, his fingers twitching in the slightest. 

She looked away, instead occupying herself by searching through her bags from the market. She began setting aside everything that belonged to Sherlock, which was a majority of the bags. When she happened upon a certain bag though, she took out the box it held and tossed it to Sherlock. He caught it with cat like reflexes and examined it.

“What do you think?”

“Appalling.” He smirked. “It should do just fine.”

* * *

 

She ran her stained, gloved hands through his hair, her fingers getting caught in certain areas forcing her to tug them free, likely giving Sherlock split ends in the process.

“For Christ’s sakes, Molly, you’re dyeing my hair not pulling weeds.”

She rolled her eyes, though her lips held the slightest smile. “Sorry, but it would have helped if you had combed your hair beforehand.”

“Comb my hair?”

“Yes. That is a thing that people do before messing with their hair.”

He scoffed. “And where was I supposed to get a comb from?” It was as if he couldn’t even fathom the idea that Molly would own such a thing. She tried not to be offended.

“Sherlock, there’s one on my sink.”

“Hm.”

“Right, let’s rinse it then.” Molly took off a glove and pulled down the shower head. She twisted the shower knobs and aimed the water at Sherlock. She ran her hands through his damp curls, squeezing strands and rubbing away clumps of dye as the water rinsed the colour from his hair. As more and more dye washed out his hair got brighter and brighter and Molly couldn’t help but laugh as the water cleared.

“What? What is it?”

“Well,” she began, stifling another giggle, “you did say it was appalling….”

He stood, taking an old towel from the sink and setting it around his shoulders to keep the water from dripping onto his shoulders. He looked into the mirror and gasped. He knew it was going to look horrid and definitely not  _ him _ \- that was sort of the point - but he didn’t expect it to be so…

“Red.” He looked to Molly, who was now missing both gloves, her hands hiding her mouth. “It’s red.”

“Not ginger.”

“Definitely not ginger. That is telephone booth red, Molly.”

“You said it would work!”

Sherlock sighed and began rubbing at his hair with the towel. “And indeed it does. I definitely don’t look like myself. Still shouldn’t leave your flat but if it becomes necessary then this will at least help us out a bit.”

Molly clasped her hands behind her back. “You know, Sherlock, some people can just pull off hair as bright as that.”

“They can?”

“Well, you definitely aren’t one of those people.”

He stared at her for a moment, but then a smile began to crack his stoic expression and he chuckled. It was a real chuckle. And it made Molly smile. Really smile. She smiled like nothing was wrong. She smiled like she was having fun for the first time since Sherlock told her about the Lazarus plan. 

She couldn’t imagine that the next few weeks or months would be easy, but maybe they would be easier than either of them thought. Sure, Sherlock would be stressed as he tried to plan out his taking down Moriarty’s network and Molly would be stressed as she kept this secret from their friends while making sure that Sherlock ate and didn’t go stir crazy in her flat. But at least they’d have each other. 


	7. Chapter 7

The following week Molly was shocked to find that her flat had not been destroyed by her new lodger. She had taken some vacation days to help Sherlock adjust to life at her flat, which was easier said than done. It wasn't until after the funeral that she convinced Sherlock to sleep in the guest room rather than her room and it took the whole week to get him to do simple things like put his dirty dishes in the sink. At the very least he remembered to put the toilet lid back down after using the loo.

But despite the fact that Sherlock hadn't destroyed the flat, Molly came home from her first day back at work to find him lying on her sofa, arm hanging over the edge. A cigarette dangled from his shaking fingers. She crossed her arms and cleared her throat as he lifted the cigarette to his mouth.

His eyes remained closed as he let out a puff of smoke. "Ah, Molly. How was your day?"

"Where did you get that?"

"Rather rude. I did ask you a question."

She set her bag down by the sofa and snatched the cigarette from his hands, causing his eyes to flicker open. "Where did you get it?"

He narrowed his eyes at her, standing up and taking the cigarette back. "Fritz of my Homeless Network. Kind soul knew I'd be needing a fix and brought me a box. How thoughtful." He took a step forward and wobbled, seeming to momentarily lose his balance, and then continued toward the kitchen. He took one last drag of his cigarette before putting it under the faucet and running water. He then tossed it into the bin, during which Molly noticed a patch from underneath his sleeve.

"Sherlock, what's that?"

"What?"

She stomped over to him and pushed up his sleeve, causing him to wobble again as she exposed two nicotine patches. "Bloody Hell!" Fury sprang to life as she ripped off the patches.

He yanked his arm away. "What's the matter with you?"

"You could kill yourself, you know that?" she fumed as the patches joined the cigarette in the bin.

"I could, yes, but  _I haven't_."

"Yet! How's your head?"

"My head?"

"Headache. Have you got a headache?" She placed a hand over his heart, which had a slightly elevated beating. "Obviously you're experiencing dizziness. Your hands are shaking." She took one hand, examining it and rubbing a thumb over his palm. "Slightly moist. Bloody hell. You need to lie down." She guided him to the guest bedroom, but he stopped in the doorway, refusing to go on.

"Seriously, Molly. I'm fine."

"No, Sherlock, you are very near to a nicotine overdose."

"I'm. Fine."

"Sherlock!" Anger bubbling inside her, clouding her thoughts as she took his hand and attempted to lead him into the bedroom once again, but he yanked it away, twisting her wrist in the process. She cried out, turning away from him as she clutched her hand.

When she looked back at him she watched his eyes flicker between repentance and vexed. He turned on his heel, gave himself a second to rebalance, and then tromped toward the front door.

"Where are you going?"

"Out. I need some air."

"Sherlock, you said it yourself you can't go outside." The door slammed behind him. "Sherlock!"

* * *

He hadn't planned on going where he ended up. It reminded him of University. Back then he had a proclivity for whiskey and soda, that is before he got a hold of the worse of his bad habits. Any time he had an issue, any time he was called "freak" or got into a fight he'd head the the closest pub and order whiskey and soda or sometime brandy. He'd just drink until his mind was numb and he felt better.

Tonight he was revisiting his old habits, for he had found himself at at the counter of a nearby pub before he even realised he had left Molly's flat. The whiskey and soda sat in front of him and he found himself eager to take the first sip. He hadn't had the drink in years and hadn't noticed that he missed it.

Every sip he took led him on a journey to his past. He thought about his dog from when he was a child, Redbeard. and how he and Mycroft would wrestle at the beach while Redbeard jumped around them and barked. He thought about the day he realized his brother didn't want to play with him anymore and the day Redbeard was put down. He thought about moving to University and meeting Molly. They became quick allies, studying together, until she showed up at his first den. Eyes flooding with tears she had dragged him out and put him to sleep in her bed. It wasn't the first time she had rescued him.

Time and time again Molly risked being mugged or getting lost just to drag him out of whatever hell hole he had gotten himself into. He could never thank her enough for what she had done for him, but he knew it was all too much and that she would eventually stop coming after him. He was right, of course. He knew the moment Mycroft had stood him up off the ground and held him in his arms.

 _"Oh, little brother,"_ he had said, _"What have you done?"_

He could never forget that moment. The joy of having his big brother back. The feeling of being betrayed by his only friend. It was all too much. He had sobbed, holding onto his brother for the last time.

They had made a promise, that night. Mycroft would be there for him, no matter what trouble he'd gotten himself into, as long as he made a list of everything he had taken. He would help him get better, and he did. He graduated from Uni with a degree in Chemistry and began his career as a consulting detective. He was just beginning to forget about Molly when he entered the morgue at Bart's to see her standing over the corpse he was supposed to examine. His heart had stopped for a moment and it appeared that hers did too.

 _"Dr Hooper, I've come to examine Mr Windeburg with permission from Scotland Yard."_  Her smile had faltered as she realized that Sherlock was no longer her best friend. She had been demoted to a colleague and would have to earn back his friendship if that were even possible.

And yet here she was. Once again his hero. Now that he thought back on it, maybe she never betrayed him. Mycroft must have found out where he was through Molly. That was the only explanation. In fact, nobody at the University even knew he had a brother aside from Molly. Had she called him every time?

Maybe she never really abandoned him. Maybe he was just a drama queen who was, at the time, trying to make her look bad to distract himself from the true monster: himself.

So she was loyal. And he was the monster.

He shook his head, flagging the bartender down for another drink. The bartender obliged and Sherlock immediately began drinking. The world was tilting but he didn't care. At this point, he just wanted to drink until his memory of him hurting Molly and the past were foggy.

"Girlfriend issues?"

He turned towards the voice, which belonged to a young man, likely in University. "Flatmate. Erh, got in a fight - I guess."

"Daniel." He stuck his hand out and Sherlock shook it.

"William." He wasn't exactly lying.

The man glanced at the line of empty glasses. "First fight?"

"In years." He looked into his glass, which was half full now. "She isn't very accepting of some of my habits."

"Women always nag, don't worry. No need to drink because she fusses about you leaving the lid up or you don't wash your dishes."

"Well, those aren't exactly the habits I'm talking about." He took a pause, debating on whether or not to continue before deciding  _what the hell?_  "My habits can be rather detrimental to my health. In fact, being here isn't exactly helping but to be honest I don't even remember walking here."

"Sounds like you've got some serious issues."

Sherlock chuckled. "I do, yeah." He finished his glass and signaled for yet another one.

"This one's on me." Daniel told the bartender and then asked for his own whiskey and soda. The drinks arrived and they clinked their glasses together. "To your flatmate, and the hopes that she forgives you and your nasty habits. Cheers."

He smiled with the help of the buzz he had built up. "Cheers."

* * *

Molly iced her wrist until the swelling went down, leaving only a slight sting whenever she used that hand. It had been two hours since Sherlock had stormed out and she was beginning to get worried that he wouldn't come back. So, with her mobile clutched in her good hand, she set out onto the streets of London to find him.


	8. Chapter 8

She had wandered around for forty-five minutes, looking down alleyways and going as far as to phone Mycroft to explain the situation. He promised to send a note out to the Homeless Network to keep an eye out for him, but it was hardly needed. She found him stumbling out of a pub, hand smoothing hair away from his damp forehead. 

“Sherlock!”

He stuck up a finger, nearly falling forward as he attempted to step towards Molly. “Shhh, they mustn’t know my name.”

“God, you’re drunk.”

“Am I? Really? Hadn’t noticed.” His speech was slurred, his laugh high pitched and giggly.

“Come on,” she muttered, locking her arm with his, “I’m taking you home.”

“To Baker Street?”

She sighed, the two ambling down the pavement. “Would that I could.”

* * *

 

She ended up hailing a cab, which took the two back to her flat where Molly helped Sherlock up the stairs and into her bedroom. He toppled face first onto the bed and Molly pulled the duvet over him, turning on the overhead fan.

“Right then, go to sleep,” she told him. “You’re going to have one hell of a hangover tomorrow.”

“I’ll be fine,” he slurred, “I’m always fine.”

“Yeah, you’re great.” She flicked off the light and exited the room.

She thanked God that she had the next day off. When she awoke the next morning she heard the vomiting and groaned. It was going to be a long day.

She walked to the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, and grabbed kitchen rolls before knocking on the bathroom door. When the only answer she received was horrible retching she tried the doorknob, finding it unlocked, and walked into her tiny bathroom. 

Sherlock lay with his face on the toilet lid, his eyes closed. Molly ripped off a couple of sections and folded them. She knelt beside him and began wiping at his mouth. He startled, eyes opening, then relaxed again.

“You’re alright,” she told him, tossing the roll into the bin and wrapping more around her hand as he proceeded to vomit. She wrinkled her nose as she prepared to wipe his mouth again. “Christ. How much did you drink last night?”

“Enough.”

She wiped at his mouth. “More than enough I think.”

He sat up, lowering the lid and flushing before laying his head back down. He looked disgusting. His curls were sticky with sweat. Of course he smelled foul, but being in forensics Molly had smelled worse. Still, she breathed through her mouth.

“Done?” 

He nodded twice. “For now.”

She tossed the roll into the rubbish and stood, offering Sherlock a hand. He looked at it for a moment before deciding it best to take it, allowing her to help pull him to his feet.

She led him to the front room and helped him to the sofa. She then retrieved the bin from the toilet and set it by his head - just in case. Sitting on the arm of the sofa, she looked down at him. Despite her lingering anger with him her heart sunk at the image of him lying there. It was absolutely pitiful.

“Need anything?” she asked softly, resisting the urge to place a hand on his leg to comfort him. Despite him being very out of it she knew he wouldn’t be a fan of such intimate contact. 

“The sweet release of death.” His tone was flat. Molly couldn’t tell if it was entirely in jest or not. “I crave it.”

She shook her head. “How about some chicken broth?”

“Some  _ what _ ?”

“Broth,” she said again, “Chicken. My father used to boil some for me when I was sick as a kid.”

“Molly, I’m fine.”

“Of course you are.” She hopped off the sofa arm and started toward the kitchen. “I’ll be back in a tick. No arguments.”

* * *

As much as he hated to admit it, the chicken broth did make him feel better just as the Alka-seltzer Molly had been kind enough to go out and buy for him. It had dulled his nausea and the chicken broth … well, just what had it done?

“Broth can help thin mucus in your throat and rehydrate your body, especially after you’ve been vomiting up your stomach contents.” 

He hadn’t realised he had spoken. He wondered how often he spoke without knowing.

“Too often.”

He looked up at Molly and rolled his eyes. “Something humorous?”

Molly’s amused smile widened into a grin. “Honestly, this is making me feel better.”

He knew exactly what she was talking about. And she was right. He had been cruel to her the night before and he could understand why seeing him in such a state would make her feel better. There was one thing he couldn’t seem to understand, though....

“Why?” 

Her smile grin faltered and she shifted on the sofa’s arm. “Last night, Sherlock, we both said some pretty rotten things, but I just think-”

“No – not that. That’s not what I’m asking.”

“What?”

He sighed. Always impatient. “You care so much, Molly. You always have. Why?”

She stuttered, unsure of where or how she wanted to start her reply. “W-well, it’s just that I - I just….”

“Molly, it shouldn’t be too hard to formulate a reply.” 

This time she sighed and twiddled her thumbs in her lap. “Sherlock, I’ve known you for so long now. And I know we haven’t exactly been very close since uni but back then - and still now - I just…. I dunno. I care. You were there for me before Meena and I was always … there for you.” She shook her head at the memories that must have flashed through her head. He could see them too. The dens. The alleyways. The scars and bruises and syringes. Lighters and spoons. Cigarettes and spiffs. It was all so much - too much for her. 

“You abandoned me.” He hadn't meant to say it. Hell, he didn’t realize he was even upset with her. He understood why she had left him. He didn’t blame her. Yet he was still upset it seemed. Fingertips drummed on his knee. 

She was shaking her head again. “No, Sherlock. I never abandoned you.” She nudged his legs, forcing him to sit up with his feet on the floor and allowing her to sit on the sofa next to him. “Who do you think called Mycroft?”

“I know it was you. Who else could it have been?”

The corner of her lip raised and dropped just as quickly. “You don’t have to like it. You don’t have to believe it. I was there for you, though. Each and every time I was told where you were I called Mycroft. At first, I brought supplies to your old flat, dropping them off with your brother until he got the hang of what you'd need.”

“You did?”

“Of course I did.” She gave another short-lived smiled and placed a hand on his knee and he stiffened at her touch. “I couldn’t just abandon you. Not after all that. Not after I-” Her eyes flickered down to her hand and her cheeks rosied as she snatched it away. “Sorry! I just-”

“Have any more broth?” 

She paused, staring at him for a second. Obviously too caught up in her own embarrassment to register what he’d said. “Sorry, what?”

Sherlock picked up his empty mug from earlier and held out to her. “Broth. It was good. I liked it. Have you got any more?”

“Erm, yeah. I just gotta boil some more.”

“If you don’t mind.” He handed the mug to her and she assured him that it was her pleasure. She started toward the kitchen but he stopped her before she reached the entryway. “Thank you, Molly.” 

He didn’t just mean for the broth. It was for everything; everything in she did for him in uni included. He had never thanked her. Hell, he never thanked anyone for anything, but he thought that perhaps this time it was necessary. And he did mean it.

She seemed to understand what he meant, though she said nothing. Simply nodded her head and turned on her heel, heading into the kitchen.


End file.
